Fall of Magicka
by The Invisible Sky Wizard
Summary: Another Morrowind story! Rated for vulgar language and scenes of violence and gore. Rate and Review!


A Morrowind Fanfiction by ArktheMushroom

A Morrowind Fanfiction by ArktheMushroom

A/N: A second Morrowind fanfic! I love that game. Anyhow, the last one was really sad. This one will probably be, too. Except for Hidden Nobody, I don't think I have much practice in sad, tragic endings, but Morrowind gives me that chance. It's a world where anything can happen, at any time.

So, my last fic was about Wood Elves. This one is about another elf. I've always liked elves. Dwarves, too. And it always pissed me off that you can't play a Dwarf in Morrowind. What good is a game like that without Dwarves? They're like, the standard for any good medieval-type fantasy game. Fuckers.

Well, who knows? Maybe my next Morrowind fic will be about the second-to-last surviving Dwemer in Morrowind (seeing as the real last surviving Dwemer is a fat, ugly Corpus).

Disclaimer: I do not own Elder Scrolls: Morrowind.

--

"Shit! He's right behind me!"

Bushes rustled and twigs snapped underfoot as the tall, robed figure pushed through the tree of the West Gash region. An arrow flew overhead and hit a tree with a 'thunk' right over his head. He gave a small gasp of fear, and dove behind a pair of bushes.

"Dagoth be damned!" he swore, tucking into a roll.

The Spellcaster rolled some twenty feet down a very uncomfortable, rock-riddled hill, and came to a halt against a tree in a heap of robes and vines.

He struggled to get to his feet as he heard the creak of leather and the sound of heavy footsteps. The Witchhunter, he knew, was right behind him.

Tearing the vines, the Dunmer mage pushed himself to his feet, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his face and back. Red hair was worked into a high mohawk, and his black skin, red eyes, high cheekbones, and large, pointed ears marked him as one of the dark elves. He wore a form-fitting, red and brown robe, glowing gloves, and plain, Chitin armor boots.

He raised his hands, bringing a spell to the forefront of his mind. "Come a little closer," he whispered, beginning the castings of a powerful spell, Poisonbloom, which shot a gooey projectile that exploded into a small sphere of highly poisonous mist that would drop a Kaguit in seconds, but, he knew, would only affect the Witchhunter for a short while, especially if this Witchhunter knew the Cure Poison spell. But it would slow him down slightly.

"Poisonbloom!" he shouted, throwing his hand forward, watching the projectile travel towards the target.

He got a momentary glimpse of his hunter; an ugly Orc, with a long ponytail, a painted face, dark eyes, and small tusks. He wore an Orcish helmet, along with gauntlets, and a torso piece, greaves, and boots made of boiled Netch leather. In his right hand, he held a longbow, the left hand was empty, his gauntlet glowing, like the gloves of the Spellcaster, which, he could tell, had the same power as his gloves; to amplify the magical abilities of the one wearing them to a ridiculous amount, though the left one also gave him immense strength, as well as the ability to jump incredibly high lengths, and land without causing him any harm.

Unfortunately, the Witchhunters, who regarded it as their mission in life to destroy as many wandering mages as possible, knew spells themselves, so fighting one was very hard if they had the abilities of both warriors and mages.

"Crap!" yelled the Orc, right before he was hit with the Poisonbloom spell. The effect was immediate; he began to choke and retch, doubling over in horrible pain. The Dunmer saw his chance; to run.

"How d'you like them apples, pig-boy?! That attack is meant to drop living organisms in seconds, so roll over and die already, ye stupid!" He shook his fist at the Orc, who he knew to be Gruk Fist-In-Face, like an old man, then took off running.

"Girly bastard!" choked Gruk Fist-In-Face, taking a small, blue bottle from his pocket, popping the cork, and quickly downing the contents. Immediately, he felt the effects of the poison fade, and hurled the empty bottle at the fleeing Dunmer. "I _will_ kill you, Veras Nerano!

'Not if you can't catch me, dumbass.' The bottle hit him in the back of the head and shattered; he stumbled forward. "OW! Mother of a draugr, that _hurts_!"

Then more pain came as he got hit in the leg with an arrow. Then it began to burn. Wincing, trying desperately not to betray the horrible pain, he got a look at the arrow; an Arrow of Flaming.

'Shit…that's not good.' The moment he yanked it out, the wound cauterized itself, but it still hurt, so very, very badly. He tried to stand, but couldn't; it hurt too much.

He heard the Orc approaching; quickly, he used the Levitate spell, and felt himself rise into the air. He heard Gruk Fist-In-Face's vehement curse, and saw Balmora in the distance.

"Well, you almost had me, friend! But remember this as the day that you _almost_ caught Archmagus Veras Neran-holy shit!" he screamed, as a volley of arrows just barely missed. 'Better stop fooling around.'

He took off in the direction of Balmora, hearing the Orc bringing a spell upon himself. He glanced down, and his heart skipped a beat; the damnable Orc was running as fast as a Nix-hound on Moonsugar!

'Oh, for the love of everything measurable and mixable, why won't he just give the fuck up?!'

Balmora was coming closer; he could see the Silt-strider and the Dunmer in charge of it. But then he felt himself shudder; the Levitate spell was wearing off, and that was his last Levitate spell for the day. Damn himself and his limited spellcasting!

Because for all of his boasting, Veras was _not_ an Archmagus. He could not cast limitless spells all day, his Magicka _did_ run out. It was merely his gloves that mightily strengthened his spells.

'Not now, please, not now, I'm almost there!'

He began to sink, at first, and then fall in earnest, right into a tree; and subsequently, on every branch on the way to the ground.

He fell in a heap, yet again; his leg was burning; his joints and muscles were aching, as well as just about every part of him; he was almost out of Magicka; and he may have broken something.

"I saw that, elf," taunted the Orc. "So close, yet so far. The Balmora guards cannot help you here, and you are mine. Relax, embrace death, it'll be fast. Tell you what; I'll use a Quick-Death Arrow. You won't feel it."

Veras heard the telltale creak of an arrow set into the string and pulled back. Veras sighed, and closed his eyes, letting go. It was over.

Then his eyes opened wide; it _wasn't_ over! He had one last bit of Magicka! Quickly, he cast the Alsimvi Intervention spell as he heard a 'twang,' and disappeared just a second before the glowing arrow came screaming in and shot right where his head _was_.

"Son of a Netch-fucking bitch!!" screamed Gruk Fist-In-Face, failing, once again, to kill that damnable Nerano! _Every_ time, something intervened! He _always_ got away!

"Dagoth can't save you every time," whispered the Orc, "I will kill you eventually, and your detestable god will not be able to help you."

Luck was with Veras again, as, the moment he appeared right outside the Temple in Balmora, a Healer tripped over him.

"Veras! Oh, not again! Hol! Breemer! Help me with him!"

Veras felt himself lifted into the air, and he closed his eyes as relief, fatigue, and fear cast him into unconsciousness.

-A few hours later-

Veras awoke on a bed. He sat up, and cast his focus inward; his leg felt fine, he could move it; his Magicka had been restored; whatever bone he'd broken was fixed now. Then he cast his focus outward, recognizing his surroundings.

"Oh, thank the Nerevarine, I'm back in the Guild."

"Yes, yes you are. And after you've properly explained, there will be so much gods-damned paperwork for you, you won't be sent outside of Balmora on an errand for _months_!"

'Uh…crap.' It was his guild superior, Aleira. She was looking at him quite sternly, her arms folded across her chest, wearing voluminous, magnificent robes.

"It was Gruk again, ma'am."

She sighed, most of the sternness leaving her face; of _course_ it was, it always was. Maybe she should try lightening up. Why was she always so hard on the man? He was, after all, still young.

"Gruk, that Witchhunter?" Veras nodded. "I see…well, we really do need to stop sending you out, until he is caught, don't we? In fact…there will be a meeting, in ten minutes, downstairs. So get ready, and get down there."

She turned to leave, but turned back, and said, with a smile, "And, Veras? No paperwork." With that, she left.

-Ten minutes later-

All of the mages of the Balmora Mages Guild stood in the lower part of the building; there weren't many of them. Maybe ten in all. Aleira Stood at the front.

"Fellow mages, we have trouble. Witchhunters are gathering."

There was a rumble of low murmurs.

"I have spoken to our comrades in the Caldera, Ald-Ruhn, and Peliogiad Mages Guilds. They have each had problems with Witchhunters, and Veras, our only Apprentice mage, who has been the only one sent outside of Balmora in recent months, has been the only one of our Guild to be attacked by a Witchhunter. His name is Gruk Fist-In-Face, an Orc, and a powerful Witchhunter.

If not for Veras' gloves, which, I believe, he enchanted himself, he would be dead. Luckily, Enchanting seems to be the only area of magic he does not need improving on, and was sufficiently able to craft gloves that give massive boosts to other areas of magic. He is lucky."

Everyone turned to Veras, who waved sheepishly. Aleira spoke again. "The time has come for this to stop. We and other mages of our sister Guilds will gather, tomorrow, using our safest method of travel, and we will go out and stop these Witchhunters, once and for all, and let them know that they cannot attack us and get away with it. Dismissed."

Veras went into the back room; if they were going to fight the Witchhunters, he would need supplies. Lots of them.

Grabbing several alchemical tools and random boxes of whatever components they had in the room at the time, he got to mixing, a grin on his face.

Finally, Gruk would be made to pay.

-Five hours later-

Well, he had done what he could. Before him stood eleven small bottles of potion. Four could restore his Magicka. One would cause a fiery explosion on impact. Another would cause an acidic explosion upon impact. Three were for health. And the last two…well, he didn't know what they did, which is why he would be throwing them at Gruk.

He marked each potion and set them into his belt, walking out of the back room, and up the stairs, and out into Balmora. Time to visit the market.

After a quickly muttered Teleport spell, he was where he needed to be. And an hour later, he had what he needed. Under his robes, he wore a torso piece and graves of boiled Netch leather. He bought a nice, iron staff, and enchanted it himself to cause massive internal trauma with each hit. He bought the most costly Soul Gem available, a multi-pointed star-like affair, as well as the Soul Trap spell. A nasty surprise awaited some poor, unfortunate Witchhunter.

Armed as he was, there was only one thing left for it; sleep. So he went back to Nerano Manor, his after killing the previous owner (by taunting him, Nerano attacked first and so it was legal to kill him), and taking his last name. The body, he fed to some Nix-hounds. Everybody believed he was Nerano's long-lost nephew or something. In truth, he was an orphan.

But now he had money and his Magicka to back him in life. What more could he ask for?

-The next day-

Veras woke up, bright and early, and ready for a bloodbath. He dawned some normal clothing, and put his new armor over that. There were plenty of mohawk-ed Dunmer in the world. Maybe Gruk would confuse him for one of the ones _not_ wearing a robe.

Luckily, years ago, he'd worked out an enchantment to put a single, large item into a small bag; that's what he did with his staff. For appearances, he donned a pair of sheathed daggers, and set his potions into his belt. Then he pulled a pair of boiled Netch leather gloves onto his enchanted ones. Uncomfortable, yes, but deceitful. He worked his fingers until he wore the joints out a little bit, and called it good.

With that, he strode out of his manor…

…and into a scene of pure chaos.

Blood and bodies littered the streets. The majority were Mages Guild bodies. Some were from the Fighters Guild. There no Thieves Guild members dead on the ground. Bloody cowards.

One of his Guild members lay, dying, upon the ground. Then, a figure in furs came up to her. At first, he thought it was a helpful barbarian. But then his face fell in horror as she smashed the mages' face flat with a warhammer.

Hatred burning in his eyes, he raised his hands and called out one of the most powerful spells he knew, his voice echoing through the skies. Through his clenched fists, two powerful, twin bolts of lightning raced out and struck the Witchhunter, who began to shriek in pain as her body went up in flames. In a second, she was dead.

A couple of arrows flew past his head, and he ducked into an alley. Guards came to the rescue, but were cut down quickly be powerful spells. Jeez…what kind of Witchhunters were these?!

Casting the Levitate spell, he rose into the air, and cast Fireball at a pair of Witchhunters close together. He chuckled as they were on fire, and tried to reach the river. They died inches from the water.

An arrow caught him in the arm. Wincing, he looked down; it was Gruk, and he was laughing.

"How d'you like _these_ apples, elf?! Yeah, I knew of your little plan! That little Khajiit punk in your Guild told me all about it. By the way, here's the traitor!" And he threw the alchemists' severed head on the ground.

As the Orc laughed, Veras wordlessly took a potion from his belt and threw it. Gruk's laugh turned into a wail of agony as acidic mist melted his skin from his bones and fused his armor to his melting skin. The Khajiit's head, he was pleased to see, got caught in the mist.

'This all serves the little traitor right.'

He felt himself begin to sink, and knew the Levitate spell was fading. He quickly flew over to a rooftop, and it gave out as he fell lightly on his feet. This roof had no stairs. He could sit and think.

Did the Witchhunters find the other Mages Guilds already? Had some of them managed to escape. He didn't see Aleira anywhere. Had she already given up? He looked back, and his heart sank; they even got to the Temple.

Well, that was it, then, wasn't it? There was nothing left for it but to run. These were men and women willing to attack a town to get to the mages. Even worse, they were strong enough to get away with it.

Calling on the Invisibility spell, he cast Levitate once more, and floated over to the upstairs entrance to the Mages Guild. He looked around, making sure nobody was around, and quickly entered.

A second later, an Invisibility spell faded from a Wood Elf Witchhunter, who smirked evilly and headed for the lower entrance.

Swallowing a Restore Magicka potion, he tossed the bottle into a trash bin, and headed downstairs. The place was a mess, but, so far, no bodies. He reached the lower part; still no bodies. Aleira was nowhere to be found.

"Hey, Veras. Over here."

He looked around, wildly, hands up and ready to cast a spell. Then he gave a shout of joy. "Cera!"

"Shh! Not so loud! Listen…I've been using the Invisibility spell all this time. I'm almost out of Magicka."

"Here, take a potion! I've got ple-"

"No, shut up and listen," she interrupted. "You'll need them more. I have enough Magicka left to teleport you to another Guild. Pick…and quickly. No arguing!" she snapped, as he looked ready to. "Just pick!"

"Ald-Ruhn," he said, grudgingly.

"Good luck, then, Veras," she said, casting the spell. He heard a door breaking; a Witchhunter was there!

"N-"

But his warning came too late. He was fading, and the Witchhunter was attacking. He faded away right before the sword hit Cera.

-In Ald-Ruhn-

Tears streaming from his eyes, he looked around; here it was worse. It was like a war zone. Everything was broken; there were cracks in the walls and floor; bodies were strewn everywhere; someone got wounded so badly, blood stains were spattered up on the wall, reaching the ceiling.

It was sick, demented, and senseless that this all had to happen. Why? Just because of Magicka?! How stupid this all was!

He stepped through the Guild; nobody had been left living. He got to the front entrance, and threw it open. The stinging sands assaulted him, caught in the wind, but he didn't care. There was nobody here. No bodies, no blood; nothing. As if everyone had evacuated. Even the Silt-strider and the rider were gone.

He went over to the Fighters Guild and opened the door; the same scene met his eyes. Devastation and blood. He woke up ready for a bloodbath. This was not what he had in mind. This was…sick. A Redguard had been gutted and choked with her own intestines; a Nord looked as though he had been slowly castrated with a rusty, barbed rod, until somebody had finally caved his face in, leaving it a red mess of jelly, with one eye still connected to the optic nerve. Someone else had been flayed alive; the skin literally _shaved_ off his body, and then slashed and torn until he bled to death, a dark red pool under his body. From his legs, he looked like an Argonian. Sick images swarmed through his head; what did they use the scales for?

He shut the door, and tried hard not to vomit; he wasn't even going to open the Thieves Guild door. He did not want to see what had happened to _them_. There were no bodies of guards here; had they evacuated the people? And where were the Witchhunters? Gone?

The place was a ghost town; just him and the dead left here. So how the hell was he supposed to get to Caldera? Or Peliogiad? Those places were really far away. He'd had to find something fast, something he could ride; then he heard the growling.

He turned; a Nix-hound. Normally a cause for fear, but he had his gloves; he just grinned. The thing came on. He raised his arm, and brought it down, smashing the beasts' face into the ground. He hopped on its back, and activated his Ring of the Beast, letting him converse with any animal.

"Alright, you bastard, listen up! Your life belongs to me. You're going to do what I say, when I say it, or I'll snap your fucking neck like a twig. Got it?"

The thing nodded feebly.

"Good boy. I'll call you 'Nix'. Now, get up, and get moving. We have somewhere to go."

He grabbed the thing by the neck, and kicked it in the ribs. It growled in pain and anger, and started running. This was awesome! First Nix-hound rider in history!

Monsters rose up to try to stop them, but Nix seemed to be very gifted, for a dumb beast (that, and a spell to boost his speed a little helped). Soon, they were on the road to Caldera, when suddenly, somebody on the road stopped them.

"Ho, adventurer!"

Veras studied him carefully. He wore Bone-mold armor, and carried a big sword.

"Name and occupation," commanded Veras shortly; he was in a hurry.

"Ah, yes." The Human had long, black hair and a goatee. "I am Julien Hayward, wanderer! I feel I should tell you, friend, these roads are dangerous. Brigands and murderers abroad, looking for yon coins. You should keep them safe. In fact, why don't you give them to me? Say, oh, one-hundred septims?"

'Is…is he trying to rob me?' Veras laughed as there was a flash of light, and kicked Nix on, and over the smoldering body of Julien Hayward, robber; now Julien Hayward, _dead_ robber.

Soon they came to the entrance of Caldera. Veras hopped off of Nix, and headed for the gate. "Stay here, and I'll know if you've gone. I'm a mage, trust me. I'll know."

In truth, he didn't care if the Nix did leave; Peliogiad was close enough. He stepped in, and sighed in relief; Caldera was gloriously alive. He walked up to the first person he saw, a female Dunmer commoner.

"Excuse me, miss."

The woman screamed, seeing his armor and knives, and ran off, screaming, "The Witchhunters are back, the Witchhunters are back!" He felt his heart sink again; they'd been here already. Had they attacked during the night?

Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by a lot of heavily armed guards.

"Back again, are you?" asked the obvious leader, a beefy human with a bristling, handlebar mustache and polished armor. "Well, it's right to the gallows for you!"

"No, wait!" he said, as they all began to close in, "I'm a mage!" They stopped, and the leader glared suspiciously.

"My name is Veras Nerano, of the Balmo-"

"Nerano? Of Balmora?"

He nodded. The leader sheathed his sword. "My name is Captain Lionel Greenwood. What can you tell me?"

"Not much," admitted Veras. "My Guild was attacked; I'm the only one left. Well, I might be. My leader, Aleira, is nowhere to be found. I'm traveling to see the other Guilds; Ald-Ruhn has been emptied out, the Guilds slaughtered."

Lionel nodded. "As has happened here."

"And Peliogiad?"

"I know not."

"Your Temple?"

"Escaped."

Veras breathed a sigh of relief; at least some had gotten away. Magicka was not entirely threatened, not yet, anyway. "Then I will take my leave; I must go to Peliogiad, and find out what has become of them."

"Sir! A Nix-hound! Standing outside."

"Leave it," said Veras, and Lionel shot him a look. "He's with me. I…'tamed' him, of a sort."

Lionel snorted, and muttered something that sounded like '_mages_'. "Well, farewell then, Veras Nerano. I hope Peliogiad has had better luck."

Veras nodded, and walked back to the gate. Sitting astride Nix again, he rode the creature through the town, and down the road to Peliogiad.

"How terrible all of this is," he said to himself. "I wonder where the Healers of the Caldera Temple escaped to."

"Perhaps that thing you people call a 'fortress'?" offered Nix.

"Possibly, I know there are mages in…wait…_you can talk_?!"

"Not normally, but that strange thing on your finger still glows. I can understand you," said the Nix-hound, and Veras heard anger in the voice; it was still pissed at him.

"My apologies," he said waspishly, cutting off the magic of the ring. Too weird for him. With a heavy sigh, he saw the sign leading to Peliogiad, and steered Nix down the road. They had been lucky, so far, that no Witchhunters had shown up. Hopefully, that luck would continue.

Veras took to whistling an old tune he had once heard, 'The Arena of Vivec,' a song sung by bards about the vicious warriors that fought in the Vivec Arena. He had gone there, once, to watch. Skilled warriors, they were, and some had even been brought into Fighters Guilds.

He found the gate to Peliogiad, and tears ran down his face; the gate was all that was left. The rest was a large, messy jumble of ruined buildings, smoking black heaps, and boiled puddles of blood.

"By all the gods, what is happening to this world?"

"Revolution, is what," came an answer behind him. Veras leapt from Nix and turned, ready to defend himself. But all he saw was an old Dunmer, with a staff to support himself. He was bald, with eyebrows so bushy they obscured his eyes; his forehead had deep wrinkles, and he was dressed as a commoner.

"You, old one. What do you know of this?"

"The Nerevarine. He saved us all; now he will damn us all."

"'Us'?"

"I am a mage, specializing in the Destroying school of magic. I dressed myself in commoner's clothing and suppressed my Magicka signature. They left me alive. Why, I do not know, as they have killed everyone else."

"Do you know why they are doing this?"

"I have just told you. The Nerevarine. A terrifying warrior, I have heard, slayer of Dagoth Ur. He saved all of us from the terrible, dark god. But now, for some reason, he is bent on erasing all Magicka from the world. Boredom, I expect; he's done so much, he's done it all. What else is there?"

"That…that's madness!"

(A/N: Madness? THIS…IS…MORROWIND! Heh heh.)

"Indeed. These Witchhunters, cropping up everywhere…some are not Witchhunters, with no trace of Magicka, yet enchanted with protective spells against it. They are all followers, fanatical warriors who wish Magicka to be erased. They are cultists. The Cult of the Blade, they call it, believing only in their swords. But, I wonder, what happens to those of them that wield magic when this is all said and done?"

"They probably didn't think it through," said Veras, and the old man chuckled darkly. "Indeed."

"I am Veras Nerano."

"I am Fero Hlaalu, House founder. Please to meet you, Veras Nerano."

"So, what now?"

"I have wondered that myself. They have finished with the towns. They will, I am sure, focus on the fortresses, next. And slowly, but surely, the rest of us will die out, leaving Magicka a forgotten memory, a secret never again to be revealed to the realms of mortals."

"How terrible."

"Blame the Nerevarine."

"Oh, I intend to…to his face."

The old man shook his head. "You are a fool. A sad, sad fool. But it looks like you are about to get your chance."

"What are you-NO!"

An arrow flew through the air, and right into the heart of Fero Hlaalu, obliterating the last of House Hlaalu.

"Yee-hoo! I got him! I got him! _I_ killed the last Hlaalu! Pay up, assholes!"

"WHAT?! Fuck you! We should see if he's really dead! Who's that guy?!"

"Looks like a newbie warrior. HEY, GUY! WANNA JOIN OUR GROUP, EH?!"

Veras spun around, and his black face turned ashy-white. Surrounded by several armed Witchhunters, had to be the tallest and broadest Nord he'd ever seen. Corded muscle bulged everywhere; armor of a white-furred animal adorned his body, with the head of a white-furred bear atop his head and a cloak made of Argonian scales (oh, dear gods, he was going to be sick). His handsome face was painted with the blue paw of a bear, and his white mustache fell past his chin; he held a glowing warhammer.

Most of the Witchhunters had Netch leather or Chitin armor, but with wicked weapons. Each one had the same look in his eye; cold, cruel…bloodthirsty.

'Well, if I'm fated to die here, then I might as well take out the big one.'

"Dickhead! Did you hear me?! Join us or die!"

Veras smiled. "You want an answer? No!" He took his staff from his bag, and the Witchhunters got into their fighting stances.

"He's a mage!"

"Fucker!"

"Surrender now!"

Veras blinked, and then his eyes seemed to glow a brighter red. "Surrender? Heh. Bad word. _Very_ bad word. You want to hear how a Nerano surrenders?" He lurched forward, suddenly, taking a potion from his belt and pitching it forward. It turned into a fiery explosion of pain, burning the first two Witchhunters, and he gathered the Poisonbloom spell in his left hand. "_**I surrender**_."

One of the Witchhunters shot an arrow at him; it struck him in the shoulder, but he threw out the Poisonbloom spell, catching the guy in the face. Vomiting horribly and doubling over, he brought out a potion, but Veras shattered it with the end of his staff, and struck the man in the neck; he crumpled.

'That makes three…'

He snapped off the shaft of the arrow, and tossed it, feeling a sword slice into his waist. He turned to the offender, and grabbed his face, feeling electricity crackle through his arm. The man screamed as his face got fried, when Veras released a massive Spark bolt that sent him flying back.

He stepped back, barely avoiding a sword, and tried desperately to think.

'Magicka or health? I need spells, but I'm bleeding fast.'

Another smacked him in the ribs with a cudgel, breaking one and bruising another.

'Fuck it.' He grabbed a Restore Magicka potion and downed it, then smashed the bottle into the cudgel-wielding Witchhunter's face. He shrieked in pain with shards of glass embedded in his face. Then he struck the man in the crotch with his staff, and his scream went even higher in pitch.

All the while, the Nord stood back and watched, a brow raised. He was, he admitted, slightly impressed. But he had several Witchhunters, this Dunmer could not kill them all.

The one with the sword lopped Veras' left ear off, and he yelled in pain. He struck out wildly, but only hit a tree. He released another Poisonbloom spell, but it missed badly and hit Nix, who keeled over.

Stepping back, he fumbled for a health potion. He nearly got it to his lips when a Witchhunter grabbed it, tossed it, and threw him into a tree. He responded with a Paralyze spell. When the man froze, he cast a Fireball into his mouth, and when he breathed in, it cooked him from the inside.

Feeling his Magicka begin to weaken again, he Summoned a Greater Bonewalker, a Fire Acolyte, and an Ice Acolyte, which began to tear into the Witchhunters. He drank down another Magicka potion, though his vision began to blur, and tossed the two Mixed potions at the Bonewalker and the Acolytes. When they hit, the creatures grew and morphed, becoming twisted, sinister demonic versions of themselves, which ripped the Witchhunters apart.

The Nord stepped in, then, and killed all three Summons with one mighty sweep of his warhammer, taking their heads off. Veras felt his insides churning; too many Magicka potions, much too quickly. He tried to cast Fireball at the Nord, but only succeeded in turning his own arm to ash and cauterizing the wound at the shoulder.

In terrible pain, his vision blurry and eyes swimming with tears, he didn't notice the Nord walking up to him. The man raised his warhammer, and swung it, like a baseball bat, into Veras' face. His brain exploded out the back of his head, smearing blood and gray-matter onto the bark, and caving his face in. Veras Nerano knew no more.

The Nord pulled back, and let loose again, striking the dead Dunmer's diaphragm. His heart and lungs exploded, and his ribs shattered. He struck him again in the crotch; his pelvis broke, and his leg bones shattered where they connected to the pelvis. When the body slumped forward, the Nord used the spike on his hammer to rip Veras' back open, reached down, and yanked his spin right out of his body, setting it into his belt, along with the others he'd taken.

Such was the new path of the Nerevarine. He'd done it all, seen it all, fought monsters, demons, and a god, handled robbers, talked to commoners, obeyed the law. He had done it all, and was sick of it all.

This was his new path; to destroy all Magicka from the earth.

The barbarian stalked off, to find the rest of his group of dedicated followers; he'd never liked the black arts anyway. Maybe now he'd go have some fun with the old mage bitch they'd captured, what's-her-name…oh, yeah! Aleira! That's it! She needed another hard reaming.

The End

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A/N: Not a very pleasant ending, is it? This is definitely not the way I intended this to go, and I didn't plan on making Aleira the Nerevarine's pleasure slave. But it turned out that way, and I'm damn glad of it.

I think I'm getting better at these tragic endings, as well as one-chapter stories. Quick and easy to do. Well, whoever reads this…please, review, and tell me what you think. Peace! -ArktheMushroom


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